


Kitten Delight

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [37]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6883162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the morning after the boys' little affair in the tub, and Aramis wants to surprise the other two with breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



It’s rather early in the day, and Aramis is feeling sneaky. A little. Because he’s in the kitchen, making breakfast, all alone.

It’s already light outside, a clear, golden morning, making it unnecessary to turn on any of the kitchen lights. The windows are brightly lit squares, still cold with moisture after a chilly night, and Aramis is wearing one of Porthos’ cardigans to keep himself warm. He didn’t put on any pants. Or socks. There wasn’t time.

For he’s left Athos and Porthos in bed together, blissfully asleep, Porthos spooning Athos in the most beautiful manner, captivating, enticing.

Aramis almost didn’t make it out the door.

But he’s wanted to do this for a while now - wanted to be the one to do something nice for them for a change, wanted to take care of them and surprise them with his culinary prowess.

So he ignores his cold feet and legs and snuggles deeper into the soft fabric of the cardigan. He didn’t bother to close it at the front, because after the way Athos treated them last night in the tub, the mere contact would be rather too much for his nipples.

And he can’t allow that to happen. Be distracted by his nipples. Nobody ever heard of such a thing.

He needs to focus.

Aramis has paid painful attention to the way Athos makes his coffee during the last few weeks, has helped Porthos make pancakes on more than one occasion. And now he’s ready - or at least as ready as he’ll ever be.

He’s going to do this.

He sets the table first, in the nice, symmetrical way Athos likes, and then he whips up the batter for the pancakes - with yogurt and shredded carrots, the way Porthos made them the first time they had brunch together. He puts two pans on the stove, exhibits a super-human amount of patience while waiting for them to heat up, and then he starts.

Turns out, he’s really good at making pancakes … or merely really good at following Porthos’ good example. Whatever it is, the pancakes turn out perfect.

As does Athos’ coffee, judging by the smell.

Aramis is really proud of himself. He relaxes his shoulders and rubs one cold foot over his calf. Maybe he should go and get a pair of Athos’ socks. Athos’ room is empty, after all, he wouldn’t disturb anyone -

Aramis blinks. He might as well get a pair of his own socks then. Jesus.

He sighs. Then he squeals.

Because there’s suddenly a pair of hands, sneaking around his middle, pulling him close, and that’s not on his checklist of coffee making steps.

Porthos chuckles into his neck, brushes the hair away from Aramis’ nape and presses a kiss to the warm skin. “Good mornin’.”

Aramis relaxes, presses back into him. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Should’ve opened a window then, to keep me from smellin’ the pancakes,” Porthos murmurs, holding him a little tighter.

His hands are warm on Aramis’ belly, gentle, a little rough.

Aramis sighs. “Yes, I should’ve. Please don’t tell me Athos is awake as well?”

“He’s in the bathroom,” Porthos says, laughter in his voice.

Aramis groans.

“Aw, don’t be like that, kitten,” Porthos teases him. “We appreciate the gesture all the same, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Aramis smiles, sighing yet again. “Still. I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did,” Porthos promises, and then Athos is there as well, still wearing his pyjamas, stepping around Porthos to brush a kiss to Aramis’ cheek.

“Good morning. Do you want me to froth the milk?”

Aramis bites his lip. He knows he should do it himself. But he also knows that Athos will feel much more comfortable if Aramis allows him to help.

Porthos, while usually being a perfect momma bear, is far better at leaning back and allowing others to spoil him - at least in the kitchen. Athos, possibly due to his upbringing, doesn’t like to be idle. He wants to contribute.

So Aramis lets him.

“That would be lovely.”

Thus Athos froths the milk while Aramis uses up the remaining pancake batter, and Porthos loiters by the kitchen unit, distracting them both with his topless appearance.

He’s grown so buff in the last few months that Aramis finds it difficult not to touch, and utterly impossible not to stare.

Porthos notices of course, but all he does is grin in a blood-pressure rising manner. It’s not that he hasn’t _told_ Aramis that he’s working out as much for his own benefit as for theirs.

“I wanna look nice for you and Athos,” he’d said, impossibly earnest. “I wanna be able to take care of the both of you.”

Why Aramis has to remember that _now_ of all times, when he’s in his underwear in front of the stove -

He bites his lip and takes a deep breath, tries not to think about the many applications of “taking care” Porthos could have meant. There’s no doubt in Aramis’ mind that Porthos could fuck him up against a wall if he wanted to, and _that_ -

“Coffee is ready,” Athos announces serenely at that moment, flicks a glance over at Aramis’ pans. “Don’t burn that pancake.”

Thanks to his warning Aramis is able to save it before it turns too brown, and he adds it to his impressive tower of deliciousness, kept warm in the oven.

“I’m gonna get the lemon curd,” Porthos says, “and the blueberry compote.”

He vanishes into the pantry and returns with his treasures, and they sit down to eat, but only after Aramis has gotten himself a pair of socks.

It takes him a while to notice that Athos is studying him from underneath his lashes across the table, and his stomach performs an interesting manoeuvre that combines fluttering with dropping and reminds Aramis inevitably of a floundering duck.

He freezes in the act of lifting a bite of pancake to his mouth, fork suspended halfway.

Athos doesn’t seem to notice. But then again it doesn’t seem to be Aramis’ face that’s holding his attention.

“You’re starin’, love,” Porthos informs Athos eventually, audibly amused. “Not that I can blame you.”

Athos clears his throat and drops his stare to his plate.

Aramis is increasingly befuddled. “Did I do something? Is the coffee not right?”

It tastes fine to him, but then Athos was always rather more fussy about his caffeine than anyone else Aramis has ever met.

“The coffee is perfect,” Athos says in his posh little voice, half mumbled into his beard. “It’s your chest.”

“My ch-,” Aramis starts, and then he looks down at himself, makes another, rather alarmed _ch_ noise. And another.

Porthos chuckles. “They are rather pink this mornin’, aren’t they.”

Aramis is going to die of embarrassment. He claws at the cardigan to pull it over his chest, hastily fixes up the buttons. His nipples instantly take interest. Oh God.

Porthos says. “Shame on you, Athos. You ruined that for us.”

At that Athos looks up, his expression rather sly. “I claim that I am the one who made it happen in the first place.”

Aramis meeps.

Athos smiles at him. “Are they very tender?”

Porthos rumbles an expletive at him that he must have learned from Flea.

Aramis is absolutely delighted by Porthos’ obvious weakness for Athos’ naughty side.

“They are a little sensitive,” he admits, surprisingly calm.

Athos smirks.

Porthos groans.

Somewhere in the apartment, something squeaks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can I just say that y'all are the least perceptive/suspicious people EVER

They eat, clean the table, and take turns showering.

Aramis chooses the lightest, softest shirt he can find in their combined wardrobe. He doesn’t really care that it belongs to Athos and proclaims him to be a snobbish bastard.

It must have been a present from Flea, he thinks. That would certainly explain the rainbow wings on the back.

How it came to be in Aramis’ wardrobe he has no idea. Must have been an after-laundry mistake. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it doesn’t chafe against his sore nipples. 

Aramis emerges from his room - feeling fresh and clean and rather nice about himself - at the same time Athos steps out of his own, looking befuddled. He’s only half-dressed, too.

“What?” Aramis asks, grinning a little. “If you’re looking for your rainbow-bastard shirt, I claimed that for myself.”

Athos takes in Aramis’ chest then, smiles, ever so weakly, and shakes his head. “Ah, no. That is not it. It seems that Miss Daisy has gotten into my room once more last night.”

Aramis grimaces. “Did she mess around with your hamper again?”

“You might say that,” Athos murmurs, blinking as if he’s trying to ban a vision from his inner eye. “She got kittens in it.”

 

“They are so cute,” Aramis whispers, nearly spraining something in an effort not to touch. “So tiny.”

He stormed Athos’ room like a man on a mission, didn’t even bother to go and tell Porthos. Athos did that. With the result that Porthos is standing between Athos and Aramis now, looking love-struck in the extreme.

There are three kittens in Athos’ hamper. One of them white with red sprinkles, one of them marbled - black and brown and red with a white chest and socks - and one of them striped grey, just like their mother, maybe a bit lighter.

Miss Daisy is in the hamper as well, nursing them. She looks rather pleased with herself, and maybe a little bit exhausted. And crowded. She is a big cat, and the hamper was not designed to function as a birthing station.

Aramis sighs. “Should we get her milk or something?”

“For starters we should tell Miss Durham,” Porthos says, and promptly exits the room.

Aramis is suddenly curiously aware of Athos’ presence.

Because Athos hasn’t said a word so far. His face is a controlled mask of indulgence as he looks down into the hamper; his arms are hanging at his side, completely relaxed.

He’s put on a shirt by now, grey and utterly unremarkable, and he doesn’t appear to be impressed by the kittens at all. Aramis has no idea what to do with that.

“Don’t you like them?” he asks, and when Athos looks up, his mask has broken away into an expression of complete surprise.

“What?”

“You haven’t said anything,” Aramis explains.

Athos widens his eyes, sneaks a glance into the hamper. “I just don’t -”

He steps away from the hamper, whispers, “I do not want to disturb them.”

Aramis wants to smish him. “You won’t disturb them by talking,” he says, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “They’re not like human babies - they don’t mind.”

He takes Athos’ hand and pulls him back to the hamper, pushes him down into a crouch.

Miss Daisy promptly chirps at them, welcoming and fond, and Aramis chirps back, smiles at Athos from the corner of his eye. “There you go. The proud mama is absolutely fine with us being here.”

And suddenly Athos is smiling, wide and pleased and horribly vulnerable, and Aramis might just get a heart-attack from the sight.

“You have done very well,” he hears Athos say, voice earnest and full of affection. “Your babies are beautiful.”

Miss Daisy starts to purr.

Aramis can’t blame her.

 

“I would like to leave them here for the time being,” Miss Durham says ten minutes later, not quite managing to keep a grin off her face. “If you don’t mind. She’s obviously very attached to that hamper.”

Miss Daisy meows in agreement and allows her owner to pet her silky head.

Miss Durham is small, and round, and somewhere between twenty and forty years of age. Aramis finds it difficult to pin her down, age-wise. Very difficult.

“If you leave the window open like this I can keep feeding her downstairs, leave everything as it is,” Miss Durham says next. “Again: If you don’t mind.”

“I do not mind at all,” Athos says, smiling ever so slightly.

“Did you know she was pregnant?” Porthos asks then, keeping one eye on the kittens, and Miss Durham grins again, even wider than before.

“Of course I knew. It was rather obvious.”

Aramis slaps Porthos’ belly. “And you called her _fat_.”

“Well, she _was_ ,” Porthos justifies himself.

Miss Durham laughs.

“It will take them a few weeks to leave the hamper,” she says, “so we don’t have to bother with bringing a toilet up.” She clears her throat and smiles at Athos. “I am obviously buying you a new hamper.”

He waves her off. “Not necessary. It is hardly your fault that I am unable to close my window.”

Miss Durham nods. “As you wish.”

She sighs. “They are rather cute, aren’t they.”

“Very,” Athos agrees in a completely unselfconscious voice that does strange things to Aramis’ heart.

Porthos promptly takes his hand.

Miss Durham takes a picture. Of the kittens.

“I am going to leave you now,” she says. “Thank you for harbouring my grandchildren.”

They bring her to the door, and close it behind her, very softly.

Athos clears his throat. “If you tell my nieces about this any earlier than two weeks from now, I am going to kill you both.”

“Understood,” Porthos says, completely earnest.

Aramis nods. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Because the kittens are too little to be touched, and it just wouldn’t make any sense to tell the girls about them when they don’t even have their eyes open yet.

Athos takes a deep breath, and relaxes. “Kittens,” he says, smiling faintly as he turns away from the front door and walks towards the living room. “In my hamper.”

“It was bound to happen,” Porthos claims and moves to follow him, Aramis hot on his heels. “The way you overdid it with the charm recently, it’s a small wonder we’ve got no forest critters in the kitchen right now.”

Athos sits down on the couch and drawls at him. “So this is my fault?”

Porthos grins. “You admitted as much, considerin’ your open window and everythin’.”

“That is not what you just said,” Athos points out, index finger raised in an admonishing manner. “You basically accused me of -”

“Bein’ a charmer,” Porthos interrupts him, joining him on the couch. “Yeah. I know.”

He captures Athos’ raised finger in his hand and pulls him in, pulls him into his lap and brushes a kiss to Athos’ neck. “Are you tryin’ to tell me you’re not a charmer?”

Athos looks up at Aramis at that, looks into his eyes and smiles when Aramis blushes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”


End file.
